A Therapeutic Start


I don’t mean that I’m not good at writing – that’s a debate for others to decide – I mean I physically can’t sit down and write. I haven’t written in over a year, almost two, and, despite the fact that every bone in my body wants to get back to writing, I just can’t seem to do it.

This new blog is a perfect example of my problem. I created Broke and Homeless on Blogspot as a personal journal of sorts. I fully intended to write an introductory post before I actually created the blog itself, and yet Word has remained open on my laptop for over a week now without me even really taking a second to try to write anything at all.

It’s weird because it’s not writers block. It’s not a lack of ideas or lack of something to say. It’s something else. Something I can’t explain even as I sit here and write whatever the hell you want to call this.

Is it because it’s just been so long since I last created anything? Is it because of the lack of response that I just can’t seem to shake? They say one of the hardest things to overcome as someone in any creative field is rejection, but I’ve never had a problem with rejection. Creative criticism, even non-creative criticism, is easy for me to handle. It’s the lack of criticism that drives me nuts.

I don’t write for myself. Time and time again I’ve heard all these “writers” who say crap like, “I write because I have to get what’s inside me out there man. You know what I’m sayin?” They’re praised and heralded as true “arteests”, but I’ve never been that way. I’ve always written because I want to be read, and I think it was the lack of readership that finally did me in.

I’d write thousands upon thousands of words worth of material. And everywhere I looked, regardless of how that material was published or presented, I just got silence. Crickets weren’t even tweeting in the background. It was just dead air, and I think that’s the problem. That’s why I have a hard time picking up a pen and getting back to basics.

Not writing makes me miserable. But writing and not being read tears at something that I love. It’s a nasty catch-22 of the world we live in, but I won’t get into that right here and now. I started this by saying I can’t write, and at this point I’ve proven myself wrong. I won’t say I’m back on the horse yet, but I’ve taken the first few steps towards the horse at least.

And that has made all the difference…


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